The Literary Agents’ Lament

THE LITERARY AGENTS’ LAMENT

LET MY PEOPLE GO

 

From the website of a prominent literary agent:

Due to the enormous volume of queries and submissions, we can no longer guarantee a response with a SASE [self-addressed, stamped envelope]…please note we cannot guarantee a reply if we do not invite you to submit your work.

 From a form letter sent by another agent:

The nature of this business is that I’m constantly deluged with query letters and submissions of all sorts and varieties.  Add to that the fact that right now bookstore sales have really dropped off, with publishers pulling way back on what they are buying.  All I can say is my desk is piled so high I barely know where to begin…

 Sheer panic?  Not necessarily.  Borderline panic?  Very likely.  Messages such as these are standard fare these days-the result, as the above quote emphasizes, of an ever growing army of aspiring authors trying to gain the attention of an ever shrinking body of readers.  And caught in between, the hapless and thankless profession of literary agents.  In the words of Gilbert and Sullivan, “ours is not a happy lot.”

 Not unreasonably, most literary agents see themselves as honest journeymen performing a badly-needed service for the literary world.  It is they, after all, who toil away at separating the wheat from the chaff among the myriad of manuscripts that keep tumbling onto the work floor.  Given the magnitude of the task, why indeed wouldn’t their self image be well deserved?  More than well deserved.  By all rights, their profession should be elevated to a level, let’s say, comparable to that of the clergy-a noble calling devoted to the betterment of mankind.

 Unfortunately, the marketplace has forced a divide between this idealized image and reality.  The sheer volume of queries and submissions-hundreds a month-assaulting each of their enclaves prevents agents and their staffs from giving more than a cursory glance at the vast bulk of these requests.  Half-drowned by this tidal wave of words, they can do little more than try to keep their heads above water, spot the most buoyant flotsam within reach, and hang on as best they can.  Sadly, they entered their profession out of a love of words, but they end up fighting them.  That is not, I suspect, what they would like to do, what they are best equipped to do, and what authors and publishers, if given an informed choice, would have them do.

It looks to an outside observer, such as myself, that literary agents labor within the confines of the worst domestic business model outside the Federal Government.  It is an accepted axiom in economics that a good or service given away attracts an ever-growing volume of consumers.  Whether it is a bank handing out toasters, a toll-free highway openly inviting traffic jams, or a relief agency in Africa distributing sacks of rice to a line of refugees stretched to the horizon, the demand for freebies inevitably becomes insatiable.  In many situations, such distortions are unavoidable but it strikes me that the dilemma agents find themselves in is self-inflicted, backward-looking, and not a little perverse.

 The situation I’ve described is a textbook example of how an artificial restraint can distort a free market to the detriment of buyer and seller alike-the restraint, in this case, being Paragraph 8 of the Canon of Ethics of the Association of Authors’ Representatives.  It reads:

The AAR believes that the practice of literary agents charging clients or potential clients for reading and evaluating literary works…is subject to serious abuse that reflects adversely on our profession.  For that reason, members may not charge clients or potential clients for reading and evaluating literary works… 

Clear enough.  But since virtually every other profession does charge for its services, the AAR’s position stands out as a bizarre, unaccountable anomaly.  Of course, whenever our fallible fellow creatures trade with one another, there is always the possibility of “serious abuse.”  Who has not experienced it at the hands of extortionist plumbers, unscrupulous attorneys, heavy-thumbed butchers and other such ilk?  On the other hand, I know of no organization that, when informed of the misconduct of a few of its members, throws its hands in the air and demands that none of its group shall thereafter besmirch the occupation’s reputation by accepting payment for their efforts.  I daresay widespread application of such a doctrine would bring the national economy to its knees within a week.

Let us imagine what would happen if, by a magical wave of the wand, the unethical were declared ethical and literary agents were free to charge for critiquing the queries and manuscripts that came their way.  That wand would be as the rod of Moses before the Red Sea.  Instantly the huge flow of submissions would dry to a trickle.  Agents could the cross from the land of exasperation to the land of serenity.  In this new land, aspiring writers would scrutinize their choices and limit their submissions to only the few agents that matched their needs.  Literary agents would have enough time to seriously analyze those queries and manuscripts that genuinely deserved their attention.  Clearly inadmissible material would presumably be returned, unread and untaxed, without the pretense of having been considered.

In short, everyone involved, it seems to me, would benefit by this freeing up of the marketplace.  The majority of agents would be more fairly compensated while others, for whatever reason, might elect to accept no compensation.  Many, I suspect, would become more narrowly focused and, in so doing, become even more proficient in their specialties.  Promising authors would be better coached while those less talented might be persuaded to try their hand at something else.  And, finally, publishers would be offered more refined projects from less harried professionals.

But what of those few renegade agents who would stuff their pockets with fees and do little or nothing in return?  Having been in business, I can confidently predict that such malefactors would suffer the same fate in the merciless marketplace as other corrupt participants.  Once-burned writers would take pains not to be burned a second time and others, taking their cue from their wounded brethren, would likewise shun agents who did not give value for money.  Armed by the Internet, diligent bloggers, backed by independent commentators, would see to it that negative experiences were broadly shared.  In other words, whatever “serious abuse” occurred would be contained and short-lived while ethical literary agents would continue to be well patronized.  And through it all, the reputation of the profession would most assuredly survive intact.

AAR, bring down that paragraph!